Bide Thee, Night
by yuuago
Summary: Norway contemplates the dissolution of his union with Sweden, and what it will mean for their relationship. Norway/Sweden, set in 1905.


Notes: This is the final revision of something that was written about half a year ago. Posted at a certain friend's insistence.

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**Bide Thee, Night**

Outside in the dark the rain poured to the ground. The water rushed through the streets and the electric lamps made it look shiny and slick as oil. It pooled in gutters and flowed loudly from the eaves and beaded like pearls on the window where Norway stood watching it fall. Every now and then thunder boomed and lightning shattered the darkness.

Norway sighed and rested his forehead against the window, appreciating the cool touch of the glass on his skin. He listened to the steady staccato of water dripping outside. Earlier that day the moment that he had anticipated for weeks, years, had been finalized. Dissolution without conflict. That was the new state of things. His union with Sweden would come to an end, untying the invisible cord that had bound them at the wrists for just over ninety years.

Good, Norway thought, breathing deeply. Good. He traced the woodgrain on the sill as he repeated the word in an endless internal chant. Too much time had been spent in this house. It had been too long since the formation of that union, which he had been less than enthusiastic about in the first place. During that time he could leave temporarily, and he had done so, spending time in his own home. Those brief moments were stolen for solitude in that place where he belonged above all others. However he had been bound to return, and he did every time – or had done so, until now. The deal was finished. He wouldn't return any more.

With the blackness outside and the light inside, Norway could see very little beyond the glass. For the most part he was only given his own reflection, ghostly in the imperfect mirror made by the glare of lamps. He drew his fingertip along the outline of his face and frowned when he realized that he looked pale and uncertain. It must have been a trick of the light. He tried not to think of the real reason that he was at the window and refused to think about the fact that he was not watching the rain at all, though it made for a good excuse to look out at the night. He tried not to linger on the knowledge that the light behind him lit the room up and made him, or at least his silhouette, visible from the street, revealed and exposed by the lamp's glowing as he waited, though if asked he would deny that he was waiting.

You are waiting, he told himself, pursing his lips as the thought insinuated it presence into the foreground of his mind. Though he could turn his thoughts in another direction there was no way to excuse that he was indeed waiting and watching, looking down the street rather than at the rain, hoping to catch sight of Sweden returning, tall and silent and dripping wet from the downpour.

Norway pressed his forehead to the glass once more, relishing the cold before exhaling. He made traces in the dust and condensation while he reflected that no matter what thought he had on the deal itself, Sweden was another matter altogether. Good company, that one. Good conversation on the infrequent occasions when he did chance to speak. A welcome presence for quiet, idle moments, as when they shared news with coffee in the afternoons, or the times they had gone on long evening walks, keeping pace side by side while the sun set and the air cooled around them.

He was a good friend, or perhaps something else, though Norway had resolved years ago to never linger on that, never allow the word to directly enter his mind. Other things might slip, but that word was not allowed in spite of the fondness with which he recalled the time they spent together in the long nights over the years. He would not think on it regardless of what memories he had of the dark and Sweden's worn but gentle hands, his lips kissed to bruising, the both of them bare and shivering from the chilled air. On those nights they eased each other's loneliness with fingertips and tongues and soft, whispered words, old ones, ones that neither of them used much any more.

Norway bit his lip and breathed in deeply. Belay that, he told himself. It would end, all of it, in the morning. There was no question that with the severing of their ties they would go their separate ways. They had made that agreement in the beginning, the words exchanged between them in private as that decision related to them alone, and they would not change it.

The next time that Norway chanced to look at the street outside he saw Sweden coming around the corner. In a manner of minutes Sweden was at the door, then inside, stomping his boots, taking off his coat. Norway sighed and closed the curtains. He would not go to him.

Soon he felt long arms slide around his waist to draw him close. Lips pressed to his neck and damp hair brushed his skin, tickling. Norway shivered and turned, caught Sweden's mouth, savoured the pressure and the quiet startled sound that the sudden movement drew from him. As he wound his arms around Sweden's shoulders and pressed flush against him, Norway tried to put his earlier thoughts from his mind. Let it be no different tonight, Norway told himself. He didn't want to have to answer honestly if Sweden asked him why his hands were shaking.

That night in the dark while the rain pounded outside he drank Sweden's kisses, savouring them like a man unsure of when he would next feel water on his tongue. Afterward, lying sleepless beside that friend who was more than a friend, he prayed that the night would linger, as the day would speed their parting.


End file.
